A Plague of Fear: Prologue

[Hemalurgic Headshot he/him]

This is the prologue for my novel, which I have entitled A Plague of Fear. Spoilered for length, please tell me what you think.

Spoiler

It was the dead of night. A cold sliver of the moon shone only occasionally through the dim clouds that clogged the dark sky. A faint breeze brought the smoke and whiff of stench from the river factories, a certain brand of smell barely distinguishable from the plethora of others that were the city. It ruffled his cloak, which was black as pitch. With it, he was invisible. The manor of Baron Kingley was quiet, oblivious. The tall arched windows were dark, the windows that looked down with oppression upon the working class. The manor was impressive, among the other manors in the Inner City surrounding the Palace of the Hierarch. This would be the twelfth since Solstice, before they would learn their lesson.

He perched upon the windowsill of the third story of the house, peering in at the sleeping form of Winston Kingley in his spacious bedroom and expensive furnishings. Kingley wasn’t afraid. Strange, because he had every reason to, especially then. Carefully, carefully, he picked the lock on the window and opened it. The breeze blew in and rustled the curtains. He climbed down into the room and landed upon the wooden floor, his padded boots making hardly a sound. As he approached the bed, he scanned the room. No one hidden, no one waiting behind the wardrobe, not hiding in the curtains, nor under the bed. He shook his head. How was this man such a fool? Could he not see the signs of the eleven other dead before him? That he was next?

He stood now at the foot of the bed, a true sight to behold. Black-cloaked Death, looming over the prone form of Baron Kingley, the breeze only just shifting the voluminous robes. The hood was deep, but if one was at the right angle, the unlucky individual would see ethereal glow of blue, radiating where two eyes should be. He had enough phobic energy with him, even if the fool man had no fear. He threw back his cloak, revealing bared arms that crackled with arcs of blue energy, tendrils of pure fear that danced along his skin. He focused, and the arcs flowed into his hands, condensing to cackling orbs of energy. He didn’t have to make such a show of it, a simple slash of a knife would do, but he needed to send a message to the thick-skulled Hierarchy. He raised his hands back, as if to throw a ball, and cast the orbs of death at the sleeping man. They struck, the energy dispersing, sending a shock wave that shook the bed. The sheets were scorched, and wisps of smoke rose from the impact. He strode over to his victim. Then he froze.

It was not Baron Kingley, but a now burnt dummy dressed to a close likeliness of the man. In the shadow, hardly anyone could have told the difference between them. He clenched his fists in frustration. Then where was—

The door slammed open and filled in four men armed with muskets and sabers at their belts. Of course, the baron’s personal guard. Now he was the foolish one. Not that he wasn’t prepared for this. Quickly, he drew his own blade from a scabbard on his waist. The dark metal blade glinted in the light of the guards’ lantern.

“We’ve got you now, Blackcoat,” a guard said. So was that what they were calling him now? It did fit. However, that was not his name, and he had no intention of telling anyone. It was time to strike some fear.

With his free hand, he took a stone from his pocket and lobbed it at the lantern. It smashed through the glass window and extinguished the light, plunging the room into darkness. The guards’ eyes had not adjusted, but his were fine as day, enhanced by the energy that came from fear. They shifted nervously, trying to anticipate and unseen foe. Good, good, now they could feel the fear grasping at their hearts. He reached out and drew on it, sucking out the emotion as it came and pulled it to him, metabolizing it into deadly energy. It sizzled on his chest, filling it beyond its capacity then leaping out onto his skin, making glowing bands of blue that danced over his torso.

A guard fired blindly into the darkness. The musket gave a bang and a flash, briefly illuminating the four, and the bullet went far right, smashing an antique vase. Quickly, while the gun had distracted them, he lunged forward. He plunged his blade through the first guard, then threw the body into the second. The guard tumbled to the ground with a yell. The other two turned in surprise, but the third guard was met with an energy-enhanced punch to the face, the blow cracking bone and smashing his nose. The guard crumpled. The final doomed guard raised his musket at the figure of death that glowed blue before him, but the gun was knocked aside with his blade and skittered across the floor. The guard, opened-mouthed in terror, gazed after the lost weapon, then turned back to black-robed man. The man raised both hands, willing the cracking blue energy into his palms, forming balls of death, then cast both into the terrified guard’s face. Both hit solidly, the blast knocking the man back several feet to the ground. Little arcs of energy skipped over his corpse before dispersing into the floor. He looked at his handiwork littering the floor. Murder was a messy business, one would think. He stepped over the bodies in the doorway and strode down the corridor.

Kingley was clever, but he would not escape. He tore down the stairs, his cloak swirling behind him. The second floor opened into a balcony that overlooked the main hall. Down at the bottom, a figure ran towards the door. Kingley, it must be. He would have heard the gunshots and made his escape. He spotted a covered object under the man’s arm. Kingley was quick, but the baron would have had to recovered his grandmother’s bust from the second-floor gallery before departing, and that what he had counted on. Kingley had just made it to the grand front door when his twin orbs of death collided with his spine. The force of them slammed the dead baron against the door, who then slumped to the ground. The bust was freed from its covering and rolled across the floor. The marble was easily seen. He looked down from the balcony at the grisly scene, his job complete. A rather complete murder, if he would say so himself. He walked back to the baron’s bedroom and exited the way he came.

As he leapt to the neighboring roof, the breeze picked up. The clouds were thick. In the distance, a flash of lightning. Yes, a storm was brewing. In the morning, the Constabulary would find the body, the skin crisscrossed with the telltale veiny marks of terrormancy. The murder would leak out to the papers, which would dispense the story to the populace.  And the people would know that the elite are weak, just like the other twelve. They are cowards and swindlers, and the people would know.

And soon, the Hierarch will know, personally.

 

[Dragon314 he/him]

Wow. That was perhaps better than most prologues to actual books I have read. I'd edit for you. I mean I', not a professional or anything but it would be nice to makes some cash when you're making millions of writing. Best of luck, and PM me if you need beta readers.

[StrikerEZ he/him]

Man, that was awesome! The only thing I felt was off was the how you referred to the blackcloak guy. Sometimes, it felt like you wore talking about someone else, then I realized you were actually talking about the killer. You should make that a little clearer. Besides that, and some very minor grammar things, it was really good. I would definitely pay good money to read the rest of the book, if that's what I had to decide whether I wanted to read the book or not.

Also, I wouldn't mind being a beta reader, either.